“Ready … Go! “
Final of the world championships. At the referee’s signal, Franek allows himself a second to gauge his rival for the day one last time. He doesn’t need more. A moment stolen from the intensity of the combat which gives him a head start in each encounter. A furtive image alerts him without his being able to linger there. A padded silence reigns in the old gymnasium where the leaks compete with the faulty lighting, the speakers are off, the sound system cut off. El Franco, a tasteless nickname that a journalist stuck to him, has been undefeated for a decade. It dominates the discipline of the head and shoulders, rolling its competitors with clinical application. The opponent responds to the sweet name of Boro, diminutive of Borowski. A Pole ten years his junior. Like all the others, he dreams of dethroning El Franco. Like everyone else, he’s going to break his teeth on the legend of arm wrestling. Earlier in the week, the champion dismissed a Canadian bodybuilder and an Icelandic lumberjack. Franek still intends to leave only crumbs to the competition.
A stubborn precursor of his sport, the child of public assistance paved the way in France. Franek shredded prejudices by starting to crush arms, got rid of the weeds, his polluting relationships, plugged the gaping wounds that blocked his way. Jumping over obstacles one by one, he ended up accumulating tournaments, victories and checks. An extra soul, say those who do not know. Much more than that. His opponents ignore him but everything is played in the first second. The weight of the gaze, a final relaxation of the wrist, an imperceptible hesitation which is transmitted to the other, tense, stretched towards the objective of dethroning him, relieved of the nervous impulse that would have been precious to him at the end of the game. A technique proven in the orphanage where the chaos of his early life led him. A mother who died in childbirth with a lightning blood loss and a father who returned to the country. A story like there are so many. One day, a vague cousin entrusted him with a series of photos of his father representing him in full arm wrestling. The clichés never leave him.
Boro throws his ardor into battle. Everything in control, El Franco lets it come, agrees to let go of the slack. He wants to have fun with the testosterone-stuffed aspirant. Silence has changed its face, a muffled rumor accompanies the fight. The room is ready to capsize at its tenth world title, while secretly hoping for a feat from the young wolf. The cluster of journalists present clings to the illusory defeat. On the lookout for the fight too many, they all dream of magnifying the transfer of power. That they continue to fantasize, it will not be for today, thinks Franek. The pressure is stronger, the other arches, believing in the advantage. A drop of sweat slides down his right cheek. El Franco is content to counter Boro’s attempts. Adjust your position, grip the handle more firmly, stand up a bit. That’s when he sees it. In the second row in the stands. A discreet supporter clutching a piece of dirty, worn cloth. A tricolor flag. No doubt, it’s him. The bald head, gray temples, extra pounds. Adam, his father. He reads the whisper of her first name on her lips, then sees her waving her pennant. Colors to his glory. Red, white. Unless ? He cannot distinguish blue.
Five seconds have passed, enough to destabilize El Franco, too little to prevent him from pulling himself together. Opposite, Boro seems galvanized, at the height of the effort. Franek has given him too much confidence, he must rectify the situation if he wants to keep the ascendancy. So he decides to initiate his favorite movement which no opponent has found the parade of so far, initiated by a strong and noisy breathing followed by a burning gaze at the opponent. You are cooked my coconut. Like everyone else before him, Boro shuns the mad eyes of El Franco. Suddenly Franek grasped what disturbed him at the start of the fight. A tiny dot at the base of Borowski’s neck.
The Polish flag flutters.
Franek feels his career is going astray. Impossible. Good God, get over yourself, he harangues himself in silence. In a final burst, the chances of succeeding in his fetish movement soar, he modifies his plan. Now arched on the padded board, cramped like never before, his feet screwed to the non-slip ground, he propels the weight of his body in a hook of which he has the secret. The other resists. It is because he smiles, even, the insolent one! Franek can no longer see her. The birthmark. In all respects identical to his.
What if the time is right? Franek sits down heavily. The hall rises as one man.
After all, the trophy will remain in the family.
